


There Is A Light

by CaptainTarthister



Series: Blue Awakening [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Artist!Jaime, F/M, Inspiration, Model!Brienne, Painting, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10075010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainTarthister/pseuds/CaptainTarthister
Summary: Alcoholism ruined Jaime's Lannister's career. Ten years later finds him sober but still struggling, lost but determined to reclaim the pinnacle of the art world. But he is unwilling to start from the bottom until he catches a glimpse of a young, sapphire-eyed lady in the street. Brienne Tarth is hardly what one calls an inspiration but Jaime feels a flare of hope.





	1. Tough Love

Jaime Lannister jerked awake, his eyes instantly wide open and his body taut with tension. A stuttering gasp escaped his lips. It was a sharp noise that puffed loud in the stillness of the room, rivaled only by the hard and almost painful stomping of his heart. He gripped the sheets tangled around his waist as he breathed, quickly, sharply, then gradually slowing down to a steady whisper of air. The rapid pace of his heartbeat slowed to a steady rhythm. One by one, his fingers loosened their hold on the sheets, hands falling palm up by his hips.

He allowed himself a couple of more steady breaths before sitting up. A hand flew toward his eyes as the bright morning beamed right into them. Again, he had neglected to close the blinds. He turned away, thinking to sleep again. Whatever good had come from sleep was lost from the anxiety that woke him. Strength seemed to have been zapped from him but his mind was too buzzed. Groaning, he got up and stretched.

He put on a pair of pants left in a heap on the chair. It wasn’t definitely as clean as it should be—it may have been weeks, possibly months since they were last washed but he didn’t care. The inner seams felt rough and there was an itch on his inner thigh from wearing them. But as it had been for a long time, Jaime cared little for comfort. Besides, he was at home. If his balls itched he could scratch them freely.

As he headed downstairs, the dark aroma of coffee and something sugary and freshly baked greeted him. He made a face upon seeing his agent, Margaery Tyrell, sitting on a stool at the counter and reading the newspaper.

With her gold-tinged brown hair, hazel doe eyes, smooth ivory skin and dimpled smile, there was little doubt to the question of her beauty. She wasn’t very tall but her shape was lithesome with ripe curves precisely where one wanted them. Since it was summer, she was dressed in a sleeveless white blouse and loose-fitting beige slacks, and low-heeled, camel-brown sandals. Jaime had just about convinced himself to slink silently back to bed when Margaery looked up from the paper and smirked.

“Finally. You’re awake. Get over here. There’s coffee and food.”

Jaime grimaced, remaining on the stairs. “Perhaps we should again re-visit your duties and responsibilities, Marge. Being that I pay you, shouldn’t I be the one giving orders?”

“I’m paid to keep you in line and to make sure you keep working,” Margaery wrinkled her nose as if he smelled bad though he was ten feet away from her, “or as it has been in the last seven years, what remains of your work still sells. Going by these, I therefore am the one giving the orders here.” She removed the coffee cups from their trays and gave him another look. “Come here.”

Jaime sighed loudly and made a big show of climbing down the remaining steps. “Don’t take this the wrong way. Yes, you’re paid to bust my balls but I fail to see what my brother sees you.”

Margaery’s laugh was the sound of golden bells but he still rubbed his ears. “That’s a question only Tyrion can answer.”

Jaime plunked down on a stool in front of her and helped himself to the coffee. Black and strong, just as he liked it. Margaery pushed another bag towards him. “Donuts and beignets.”

“I prefer bacon and eggs.”

“If you want me to cook for you, the fee is separate from being your agent.” Margaery replied, helping herself to a sugar donut from the bag. She took a dainty bite. When Jaime looked at the pastries with distaste, she rolled her eyes before retorting, “Next time, I’ll make sure to dunk them in whiskey. Or is it scotch? Maybe something as pedestrian as beer will be good enough for one Jaime Lannister, hmm?”

Jaime reached inside the bag and pulled out a beignet. “Now you’re just mean. Making jokes about my alcoholism won’t help, you know.”

“Yeah, but it’s more fun.” The smile she sent him was fond, or as fond as Margaery could manage. “I also believe that the more we tiptoe around the subject, the more it has this power over you. Jaime,” and then she suddenly reached for his hand and squeezed it. He squirmed under her searching gaze. “It’s a process. Remember that. You might think going to AA isn’t helpful but it’s a big step. And you’ve been sober for four years. You should be proud. We all are.”

He patted her hand. “Thanks.”

She smiled then released his hand. Margaery went back to reading the papers while Jaime helped himself to another pastry after finishing the first. He downed the coffee about halfway through the cup before dumping the rest in the sink.

As he wiped the counter clean with a sponge, he noticed Margaery reading the art and leisure pages. “What’s going on in the world?”

“Nothing unusual. There are three exhibits from up-and-coming artists, two of which have mediocre work so I’m pretty sure they’re sleeping with the gallery owners,” Margaery said, smirking. “One, I have heard of, seems promising but still lacks polish, in my opinion. And. . .that’s it. There’s a performance art called ‘Bodily Secretions’ at the Baelish Museum.”

Jaime washed his hands. “No, thanks. If I want to watch somebody take a piss, I’d just put a full-length mirror by the toilet. I’ll also be bigger.”

“It’s a woman. Someone named Ellaria Sand.” Margaery made a face. “And you’re disgusting.”

The doorknob rattled from the other end, indicating someone was trying to get in. Jaime returned to the counter, waiting expectantly for his brother to appear from behind the wall. Margaery turned just as Tyrion did. The smile that lit up her face was soft, certainly not the kind she gave Jaime before. It was disgusting, really. Margaery was looking at Tyrion as if she could just lick him up.

Even more disgusting, the look Tyrion sent her was so searing that Jaime feared his loft would blow up. His eyes rolled to the ceiling as Tyrion shuffled towards them. Jaime only lowered his eyes when he heard his brother climbing on a step beside the stool, seating next to Margaery. The couple kissed, fortunately briefly, before turning back to Jaime.

Looks-wise, Jaime was the winner, hands down. But he could be compared to any man and he will always be the clear winner. Tyrion was the perfect contrast. Compare him to any man and he will emerge as the ugliest with undeniable certainty.

His hair was more pale than Lannister gold and his eyes were mismatched, one a bright, emerald green and the other black. His nose was small but pinched, with big nostrils. As a dwarf, his head was too big for his narrow shoulders. His arms were too short, so Margaery had to help him push the stool closer to the counter so he could stack his elbows on it. Tyrion was Jaime’s business manager.

“Any progress?” Tyrion asked them as he set his briefcase on the counter.

Margaery glanced at Jaime and shrugged. “He wants me to cook.”

“Hey,” Jaime protested. “I’m right here. Stop talking as if I’m not here.”

“Interesting choice of words,” Margaery mused. “Being that you have been invisible for a long time.”

As Jaime glared at her, Tyrion laughed. “She’s got you right there, big brother.”

“Look, whatever this brand of love you two are doing to me,” Jaime said, “stop it. You’re making me dizzy propping me up one minute then stepping all over me the next.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you want me to kiss you and say everything will be alright?” Margaery retorted. “Are you five?”

“I get the loving kind of love from my wife,” Tyrion explained with exaggerated patience to him. “You get the tough kind.”

“Seven Hells,” Jaime muttered.

“Can’t help it. It’s so fun!” Margaery told Tyrion.

“Well, maybe don’t enjoy it too much, my love. You don’t want Jaime to start drinking again.” Tyrion grinned as Jaime frowned at him. “Oh, come on. You’ve been sober for a while. We can joke about it, you know.”

“You’re making light of my struggle.”

“Of course not. We’re just dealing with it in a way that you won’t capitalize on it. Now, if I may steer the conversation towards something more important. Have you tried drawing today?”

Jaime groaned and pointed at Margaery. “She won’t treat me like I’m five but you do?”

“It’s just a question.”

“Why? Am I going to be a pauper soon?”

“Thanks to me you’ll never be. You made a lot of sound investments before alcohol fucked you up,” Tyrion answered, opening the briefcase. “I just need you to take a look at this month’s expenses, sign off then I’ll get lost.”

“And you?” Jaime demanded to Margaery.

“If you think I’m going to stay any longer, you’re mad. But Jaime, it won’t hurt to try.”

He put his hands on his waist and glowered at them. “It’s a little difficult to believe that you just want me to try drawing when you are very dependent on my hands for your next meal.”

“Actually, it’s also thanks to me why we don’t, really.” Tyrion said, grinning.

“Well, being that we won’t be starving any time soon, I don’t know why you can’t get off my case about drawing. I need to be inspired.”

“Inspiration is for amateurs. You told me yourself, brother.”

“What makes you think I haven’t reverted to that sorry status?”

“An amateur is one who’s completely new.” Margaery said. “You just. . .got off the straight path or something for a while. I mean, it’s like you’ve gone on a total reset but also not because you’re not one hundred percent clueless.”

Jaime shook his head. “I’m going to need at least a glass of whiskey to understand that.”

A significant pause fell among them. Tyrion suddenly slapped his palm on the counter, making Margaery jump. “Hah! You made a joke!”

Jaime hung his head then smiled at them. It was a tired smile but there was no bitterness. “Who says only you two get to have all the fun?”


	2. Just Keep Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Jaime. We also meet Brienne.

Perhaps the funniest thing about becoming an alcoholic was Jaime had not been too keen about drinking in the first place. If there was anyone who was going to hit the bottle hard it was Tyrion. Or Cersei. Jaime felt a momentary faltering in the momentum of his legs running hard on the pavement at the thought of his sister. Years had passed but there were days when just the idea of Cersei could hit him hard and he salivated over the prospect of a sip of wine, just to forget. A sip that he knew would lead to draining the bottle.

He had been sober for six years and seven months. Though the temptation to drink had lessened, the struggle was still as real as the day when he decided to stop. He had been a wreck, hardly he golden Lannister envied and fantasized about. Tyrion joked that was the only time he was considered as the handsome brother.

Tyrion and Margaery were newlyweds at the time but both insisted that Jaime live with them until he could get back on his own feet. They disagreed with his initial decision to recuperate in Casterly Rock. It was home, yes, but the castle with its precious antiques, huge, empty rooms and servants ready to answer the whims of a master was a lot more inhospitable than a planet without oxygen. So Jaime ended up living with them, and many, many times, came close to tipping a bottle of wine to his lips. Not because of misery but being that they have been wed for only a few months, the couple was very frisky. But he didn’t complain. Margaery drove him to his AA meetings, Tyrion made sure he ate the healthiest, freshest foods. After Jaime lost weight, Tyrion had him sign up at the local gym to get back in shape.

Jaime lasted for about two weeks before realizing that sweating indoors was not his style. This was a year after he started going to AA meetings. The musty air of the gym could get thick, a wall of sweat and salt jammed into his nostrils all the way to his chest. So he started running.

And he was still doing it. Sometimes he ran twice a day. There were nights when falling asleep was easy so he woke up before sunrise. After double-knotting his shoes, he was out of the loft and into the street, wanting to get as many miles as possible before his legs killed him. When sleep was elusive, he put the shoes back on and returned to the street. With only the pale glow from street lights and the faint twinkle of the stars, the city looked gray, desolate but beautiful. Jaime ran as much as he could, pretending he was the only person left in the world. Some people would like to shoot themselves if this were the case but not Jaime. There was comfort in being alone, and made him feel truly alive.

Today he was running in a city soaked golden by the sun. Summer had rendered everything in bronze or brown, with only a smattering of green if one knew where to look. His lungs were burning from running for over an hour. An ache in his legs promised serious cramps later but the high was too irresistible. Just like when he used to drink. The high was a combination of sweet buzz and silky languidness, and the only solution was to get more and more.

Thanks to running and a steady serving of food that emphasized health as well as flavor, Jaime was in the best shape of his life—better than when he was younger. His head was clearer and his feet were more steady on the ground. But none of his paintings have graced any gallery walls for a long time. No show, no mention of him anywhere. The few works he had that Margaery had been able to sell were sketches (“Doodles,” he disparagingly called them) and they were fewer than all the fingers he had. His work was not only sporadic but truthfully, half-assed. Only hardcore collectors would buy them. Alcohol had not only robbed him of the man he used to be. It also took away his promise. His talent.

 _Draw,_ Tyrion and Margaery would always encourage him.

The pull of needing and wanting to create wasn’t just there anymore.

Drinking was a struggle. Running, despite his body screaming for rest, was difficult to stop. But painting. The only commitment he had for more than half his life—gone.

Gone.

Jaime found a park bench and leaned over it, catching his breath. He was breathing so quickly and so sharply that air felt like well-sharpened knives in his gut. A few minutes passed before he stretched his cramping calves, then pushed his arms high over his head until he heard that satisfying snap in his spine. Wearily, he collapsed on the bench, feeling at last his sweaty t-shirt cooling and beginning to cling on his skin.

When the feeling returned to his legs and his lungs no longer filled with dragonfyre, he lurched to his feet. As had been his routine, he walked towards the food trucks on the other side of the park.

After running, Jaime liked to indulge. He ordered his favorite pulled pork sandwich with sharp cheddar, and a cool, tingly lemon drink. He added curly cheese fries topped with bacon bits. He wolfed down the food on one of the benches, ignoring the seductive and appreciative stares women and some men were sending his way. His t-shirt was white and threadbare to begin with. Now that it was soaked, he was basically naked from the waist up and merited a second, third, fourth, lingering look. He was done with AA’s twelve-step program but still went to meetings. He had also not had a relationship nor engaged in sexual relations outside of himself for nearly seven years.

Tyrion complained he should stop punishing himself by living like a monk. He couldn’t understand it when Jaime said he had zero need or inclination for a relationship, or someone to fuck. It was working so why change anything? Yes, it was sad he’d only had his hand for this long but really, he felt no desire for anyone. He jerked off simply to release tension, aided by porn. As soon as he had spilled, he closed the laptop and took a nap.

He dumped the cartons and glass in a garbage bin then continued walking home. His loft was five blocks from the park. In between were shops, restaurants and cafes. Jaime bought fruit from a Dornish stand, and studiously avoided streets with convenience stores that advertised beer. It took him around ten minutes longer than if he’d simply walked by them but he didn’t like tempting fate.

Back in the loft, he showered, got dressed. It was four in the afternoon. There would be sure of activity in the park because of nannies and their charges going for a stroll, the work-at-home-mommies putting on their running shoes to take their babies out. Jaime, his hair still damp, trudged downstairs and went to the studio.

His loft was huge. When he bought it, he had the few wall partitions torn down so it was this one big open space. The kitchen and dining area were small, and there was also another small area consisting of a couch and an entertainment center for the rare times he entertained grudgingly—at Margaery and Tyrion’s insistence. The rest of the space was devoted to his work.

Because of this, it always smelled of turpentine, paint, canvas. When he would work feverishly, his sweat was another punch. A few easels were positioned by a huge bay window, now with the curtains drawn so the room wasn’t too bright. Tall shelves he had custom-made were crammed with paint, oils, brushes, and all the equipment an artist would need. Jaime had not picked up a paintbrush since becoming sober. Instead, he had turned to charcoal.

There was something reassuring hearing it whisper across a sketch pad. It was the kind of quiet sound that demanded absolute silence to be heard and appreciated. Jaime used to like paint, enjoying the kinds of colors and textures created by mixing them, and the way the material they were being used on absorbed and reacted to them. It was art too. He still believed it. But these days, using charcoal felt more true to who he had become—a man still on the crossroads, still lost, a little bit confused, but at least steady on his feet instead of wobbling. Small but significant takeaways.

Draw, his brother and goodsister encouraged him. He would draw, but not every day.

Inspiration is for amateurs, he used to say to Tyrion.

Inspiration was a good thing but it wasn’t enough to keep a serious, dedicated artist going. Discipline and commitment got the job done. Persistence with a coalescence of opportunity and luck brought fame and money. Jaime wasn’t interested in those. Only that he start doing something again. Even when zapped of any drive, he had to. This is what he tapped into now. He had to. If only not to waste another day.

He took the half-dozen Dornish pears purchased the hunted in the cupboard for the appropriate bowl. Gods, when did he ever buy a bowl with flowers? And what was this thing with trees and birds? Margaery, Jaime thought, making a face. She must have. He was definitely a birds or trees guy, let alone flowers. Roses at that.

Finally, he found a bowl that was plain and non-descript. It was white and had the yellowed stain of age. He took the bowl, dragged a table from the window and started arranging the pears. Will they just be a bowl of pears? After they were arranged to his satisfaction, he took his seat, put the sketchpad on an easel stand. He sharpened a piece of charcoal and got ready to work.

Only to frown when he realized that he only saw the fruit for what it was. A fucking bowl of pears. Aside from rendering, an artist must also regard. Gods damn it. The way he saw things would be what will be on paper. And if all he saw was a bowl of fruit, that’s it. All that time spent looking for the right bowl and arranging the fruit only for it be no more than fruits in a bowl? Fuck that. He got up from his seat with a frustrated sigh to arrange the fruit again.

 

 

_Just one more apple. One more apple. One more apple._

Brienne Tarth let herself groan as she finished arranging the newly-arrived fresh apples at fruit and produce section of Super Seven Saver Mart. Her arms were killing her from bringing cartons of apples from the stockroom all the way here for the display.

Soreness in the body was not new. Anyone who worked three jobs to keep herself fed was familiar with it. It’s just that she couldn’t really risk getting sore hands because they were also integral to her other job.

Brienne worked part-time at the Super Seven, one of the nameless, sad cogs who arranged things on the shelves and swiped prices on them. With her broad form and six-foot-three height, she was often tasked to arrange the top shelves or told to bring in piles upon piles of cartons. Her arm muscles were strong but it left her fingers stiff.

Her other job was teaching the cello to some upper-crust ten year olds who were learning the instrument more because it was expected of them instead of loving it. It paid more than the shitty job here at Super Seven but it relied heavily on word-of-mouth. The only reason she had the tutoring job was because of old family ties—and they were getting frayed through time because her father was dead and pretty soon, Tarth would be just as common a name as Snow or Storm. Brienne also was shy and would die first before presenting herself as another entitled brat’s tutor, even if it meant more money.

Her third job was as a pet groomer for Ruff n’ Roll, a mobile pet grooming service. It was a lucrative business and the tips were nothing to joke at. The driver of the van she was assigned to, Prodrick, was a boy two years younger than her and nice, though on the quiet side. Brienne liked animals enough but because of this work, she was convinced that she always stank of dog. It explained why Olenna Tyrell’s cat was always hissing at her when she checked in on her elderly next-door neighbor.

Three jobs, all part-time, all back-breaking, two which often put her hands at risk, and emotionally draining on certain days. What was left of Brienne’s inheritance was used for her father’s funeral expenses and to buy a modest apartment in Rosby Avenue. It was a difficult, heartbreaking choice but she had to be practical. The money after paying off what was owed was enough for her to remain in school for two years, but covering only tuition and dorm, nothing else. She still wouldn’t finish because she was only able to finish a semester before having to take a leave when her father got sick then dropping out completely when it became urgent for someone to be there for him at all times. She had cried for days, mourning the loss of her beloved father, hugging the cello that she feared would never play again. Cry hard she did until her eyes were puffy and dry. Then she went about hunting for a place to live. Tarth was no longer home—her father had not paid the mortgage for a long time. The money too wasn’t enough to settle this problem. Brienne’s heart was already a thousand pieces when the bank foreclosed on the house she grew up in.

At nineteen, she was not only alone in the world. She had nothing.

Buying an apartment was the solution. She would starve, fail to pay the electricity bill, but rain or shine, she had a roof over her head. In order to eat and pay the utilities, she will have to work. There was hardly any money for tuition, which meant school would be out of her reach for a while. But work. There was always work.

Brienne put the last apple on the pile  and stepped back to examine her work. She had not been given any direction on how to arrange them. So she arranged some to make up a base, gradually forming a small tower on which she set the price information on top. It was boring work but she thought it looked alright. As much as she hated being a shelf filler slash stock girl, she didn’t want to end her last day here on a sour note.

She had another job lined up for her. Mop Busters was a housecleaning service where her friend Sansa Stark worked. Sansa worked there during the summer. The pay was small but the tips were often generous. Because of this, the wait list was long and there were some who had to wait for months before being hired. Sansa’s recommendation of Brienne had given her higher priority in the list. She was grateful. She needed every stag she could get.

Brienne would be twenty-three soon. Though she has learned of having to give up certain things in order to survive, the one that she couldn’t completely shake away was school. She had been saving since she started working, kissing every check she deposited for good luck and zealously monitoring her money in the bank. She was still around six thousand dragons away from being able to afford tuition, books, miscellaneous expenses. If she worked non-stop during the summer, she could probably make close to half that. This was okay. She hoped to enroll in the second semester at the earliest. If not, then during the summer, so she could advance on some courses, if possible.

Oh, to return to school. Brienne had kept in touch with her teachers at Marillion School of Drama and Music. Since she had dropped out, this meant she would have to audition once again. More than possibly not making enough money to go back, Brienne feared bombing the audition. She was often too tired to even lift the bow but pushed herself, practicing for an hour before calling it a day every day. To be considered for a spot, she will have to put in more hours.

Brienne was still smiling at the display when she heard the familiar clomping of Roelle’s clogs on the linoleum tiles. She was a stern, little woman with rough, gray hair, dull brown eyes and dark purple lipstick that emphasized her yellow teeth. She also colored outside her lip line. Brienne stiffened. Roelle didn’t like her. Had never liked her. When Brienne presented herself before the woman in the bright orange polo shirt and brown slacks of the Super Seven, she had smirked and sneered, “At least you know this isn’t the job to be pretty, Tarth.”

She had been made fun and insulted for her looks for as long as she could remember. Brienne had learned to be unaffected but to hear it from a supervisor, a person she had never met before, had been disheartening. But she was no quitter. Roelle seemed to want her to quit as she always ordering her about during her shift, and would get upset when reminded that unless the store was paying her overtime, she was leaving.

Roelle was glaring at the apple display as if they were filled with crawling worms and maggots.

“What is this?” She demanded.

“It’s a display,” Brienne answered. “Like you told me arrange them.”

“This is not a display. You call this a display? What if some kid swipes a hand at them? You know what will happen?” Brienne froze at the sick glee from Roelle’s eyes as she flung her hand across the apples. Sure enough, they collapsed. Worse, some even rolled to the floor, the flesh cracking. Brienne could only stare helplessly at the piles of fruit rolling toward her feet.

“Redo everything.” Roelle said. She picked up an apple from the floor, examined it then tossed it to Brienne. She caught it and saw that a portion of it had split.

Enjoying the young girl’s crestfallen face, she sneered, “That comes out of your overtime pay, Tarth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I modeled the Marillion school after Juilliard.


	3. Kicked But Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne stands up for herself. Jaime gets some verbal beatdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cursing ahead.

Since her employment at the Super Seven was approaching the end, Brienne had been fighting back. When she was new she just kept her head down whenever Roelle insulted or made fun for her. Since she wouldn’t be coming back in this godsforsaken hellhole for the rest of her life, Brienne didn’t have anything to lose. She didn’t fight back outright but made her displeasure known to the manager, a fat, helpless kid not much older than her: Samwell Tarly.

Samwell Tarly was a nice guy. Maybe even one of the good ones. Brienne cared little that he was at least twenty pounds overweight, looked like one of those hairless dogs with wrinkled skin, and big, docile brown eyes. Outside of work, yeah, he could be one of them. But he sucked as a boss. Still, she knocked on his door, waited for him to tell her to enter, then pushed it open.

The office was a depressing rectangular space with just enough room for a desk that looked to be scavenged from garbage and a chair for the manager to sit on, one stool for an employee. The green walls and fluorescent lighting made everyone look sickly. Even the sight of Sam made the most miserable come off better. His short-sleeved checked shirt was close to bursting; the cuffs of the sleeves were frayed and the buttons struggling to remain in their holes, the widening gaps between them showing his threadbare undershirt. But Brienne no longer felt sorry for him.

“Hi, Brienne.” Sam greeted her. Then seeing her stormy expression, he whimpered, “Uh, what happened?”

“I was told to make the apple display. I did it. Quite well. Roelle didn’t like it and destroyed it. Apples are currently on the floor, cracked, smashed, whatever. Because of her. If you can’t sell those damn apples, I will not allow it to come out of my paycheck.”

Sam sighed. “Oh.”

Brienne, still standing by the door, her hand around the doorknob, cocked an eyebrow. _“Oh?”_

“Brienne, you know how she is.”

“Yes, I know how she is.” Brienne stepped away from the door so it will close. “She has insulted me repeatedly since my first day yet you’ve not heard one peep from me about it, Sam. Not one word. But I refuse for something I worked hard on to be disregarded like that. It’s not only disrespectful. It’s harassment.”

“Now, Brienne,” Sam spread his hands in an attempt to placate her. “I wouldn’t call it harassment--“

“No? How about abuse, then?”

“Come on.”

“Sam, this is a shitty job. You know it. I know it. That doesn’t mean Roelle has the right to step all over anyone.”

“I know.” Sam heaved and huffed as he stood up. By the time he was vertical, he was sweating. Brienne tried to not make a face as he wobbled around the desk so he could approach her. 

“Roelle has always had. . .a problem, that is true.”

“And?”

“Well, she’s old! And you’re right, this is a shitty job. She’s not happy about it. But she’s paid her dues in society.”

Brienne stared at him in disbelief. “Oh. My. Gods. I swear to the fucking Seven I didn’t just hear what I did.”

Sam tried to speak but she held up her hand and glowered over him. Being six-foot-three could be very useful during times like this. 

“Are you telling me that I should just let his slide because she’s an old, bitter woman? That because she’s been around longer and got fucked in the ass by gravity, society, whatever, _she has the right to do what she did to me?_ ”

As she spoke, she advanced toward Sam. Her blue eyes flashed as he was practically under her nose. She was blocking the light and he was blinking and sweating.

“Brienne—“ he squeaked.

“I wonder what the Westeros Workers’ Union will say about this.”

“I didn’t know you’re in the union.”

“No. I’m not. But they will represent all employees, member or not. And what was done to me, what is still being done to me, is just the kind of situation that they will salivate over. Kind of like a bone to starving, rabid dogs.”

“Look, Brienne, I’ve tried to help you—“

“You call telling me to just let Roelle be because she’s old--helping?”

“What do you want me to do?” Sam was blinking rapidly, trying to see through the sweat dripping from his limp brown hair. “I’m manager but she runs the place. People listen to her, not me.”

Brienne wanted to yell that he was a sniveling, pathetic excuse for a human being but this was not the place to be mean. Not yet. Besides, if she said that, she could also be accused of harassment. Instead, she jabbed a long finger on his sweat-damp shoulder.

“That’s your problem. You have to man up and tell people that it’s your rules they should follow, not hers.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

“Then tell people they’re fired if they don’t shape up.” 

Sam looked thoughtful but shook his head. “They’ll never believe me.”

“Look, Sam, much as I would like to help you, we have a real problem here between your employees. So, how’s it going to be? Do I got to the workers’ union now—“

“Oh, no, no, Brienne. Please don’t.” Sam actually put his hands together in prayer as he made his plea. “I—I know I’m not the best manager—“

“Clearly.”

“But a case like that, please. Please don’t.”

“Why not? It’s the right thing to do.”

“Look.” Sam’s body wobbled again as he suddenly rushed to his desk. Or rush as much as his body would allow him. He whined as he stretched his fat arm toward the drawer behind the desk. He pulled it open and took out an envelope. He shuffled back to Brienne, looking like a dog who had successfully caught a stick and was looking for head pats from his owner. He held out an envelope to her with flourish.

“It’s your last pay. With bonus.” At Brienne’s suspicious look, he shook it at her. “Go on. Take it. Have a look.”

Brienne took the envelope and opened it. Inside was a check. Her last pay. With bonus.

A lot of bonus.

“What’s the bonus for?” She asked, still holding the check before her then glancing at Sam. “And are you firing me?”

“No!” Sam exclaimed. In a calmer voice, he said, “The bonus is for all you’ve done. Or didn’t do despite being constantly baited by Roelle.”

Brienne frowned and put the check back in the envelope. “I deserve more than this.”

Sam looked like the rug had been pulled under him then nodded vigorously. “Oh. Well, if you want, how about I throw in a package of chicken wings?”

“What?”

He looked apologetic. “I really can’t do much, Brienne.”

Despite her frustration, Brienne still felt sorry for him. She wasn’t going to let him or Super Seven get away easily, though.

“I want at least a kilo of chicken breasts. And steaks.” Then she remembered. “Also cat food.” 

She did have a roof over her head, she wasn’t going to starve but if she could avoid spending for food for a while, then, given the abuse she had endured, it was just right for Super Seven Saver to pick up the tab. 

Sam nodded again, as if her request for cat food wasn’t weird. “Okay, Brienne. Done. I’ll even get them myself.”

“Don’ you try screwing me over by giving me something that isn’t fresh.”

“No. I won’t. I swear it.”

As Sam practically barreled towards the door, Brienne added, “And I also need a good reference. No, a glowing one. When a future employer asks you about me, I want you to tell them that I was the best you’ve had and you were sorry to see me go. At least.”

Sam paused by the door and smiled at her.

“I won’t have to lie, Brienne. You are the best employee I’ve ever had.”

 

Bronn looked up from the chair leg he was sliding a sheet of sandpaper on. The corners of his pale gray eyes wrinkled as he frowned at Jaime. “Eh?

Jaime sighed and ran his fingers through his hair impatiently. “You heard me. I don’t know how to regard anymore.”  
Bronn continued to frown but resumed his task, albeit slower. “Look, I didn’t go to any fancy art school like you did, pretty boy. You’re gonna have to explain to this working-class fart what, ah, regard, is.” He said the word regard mockingly.

Jaime sat back on the chair, tipping the legs back as he rocked back and forth. “It’s just how you see things and render them.”  
Bronn stopped sandpapering again. “You need to have your eyes checked?”

Jaime glared at him. “I have an actual problem here.”

“And I have to deliver this fucking chair tomorrow upstate. Also my truck’s engine is just a few miles from the Stranger’s door. I don’t know what you call these in your world, Lannister.” Bronn wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand then took a fresh sheet of sandpaper. “But for ordinary folk, those are fucking problems.”

Jaime watched him move to sandpaper another chair leg. 

After arranging then re-arranging the pears, Jaime finally got in front of pad and began to sketch. Halfway through, however, he tore the page and chucked the charcoal in frustration. He ended up giving away the pears to a homeless person on his way to Bronn’s workshop.

Cooper & Son Furniture was where Bronn worked. He didn’t inherit the business from anyone, nor did he have a son. The store was named such because he found Cooper Furniture a boring name, while the addition of ‘Son’ gave it a nice ring. But when customers asked, he had some story about his old man always wanting to be in the furniture business so the shop was named so in honor of him. He designed and created his own furniture and had a workshop in the back. Due to the heat, the smell of wood shavings was sharper.

The friendship between Jaime and Bronn still surprised people, though they have known each other for almost twenty years. They were a most unlikely pair—Jaime from old money, who can trace his ancestry all the way to Aegon’s Conquest, one the most sought-after bachelors at the height of his career, and always the most handsome man anyone met. Meanwhile, Bronn had no idea who his father was, looked like a hired assassin with his preference for all-black clothes even in the summer. He was never without a lover, despite not being handsome: a wide, high forehead from which oily black hair grew to his shoulders, too-pale gray eyes and skin that was already deeply-lined despite being only in his late thirties. 

Bronn could be crass, rude, at times politically inappropriate. But Jaime knew he would never bullshit, that he would always tell things as they were no matter how hurtful. People tend to tiptoe upon finding out who Jaime was but not Bronn. He thought Lannisters were a hoot. He claimed to like Tyrion more than Jaime, “because I am more good-looking than him,” and his favorite Lannister was Margaery, who was “one clever rose to keep her name amidst roaring lions.”

“Look, this is a big problem. I’m an artist. All my life I’ve been one. Now I can’t even fucking manage to see more than what a bowl of fruit could be.”

“And that’s what separates the artistes,” Bronn said sarcastically, “from humble furniture designers such as myself. See, a bowl of fruit is a bowl of fruit for me. No matter how you light it or shade it, it’s only a fucking bowl of fruit.”

Jaime straightened the chair, staring off into space. “I’m screwed if this keeps up, Bronn.”

“Then what, you’ll drink again?” Bronn told him. “Suit yourself. But you might lose all your good looks as well when you start drinking again. Which is good news for me because the women will definitely go for me now. By all means, help yourself to a beer in the cooler.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Then stop whining like a little girl. You’re like this girl who just complains about some other kid pulling at her pigtails. Unless she’s immobilized from the neck down or she’s deaf, there’s a fucking lot she can do about the jerk.” He looked pointedly at where Jaime was sitting. “Your ass has warmed that chair long enough.”

Jaime got up and settled on a work bench. Stacking his elbows on his knees, he said, “I knew going back would be hard, Bronn. But this—I didn’t expect it.”

“And again, I ask, are you thinking of drinking again?”

Jaime paused then said, “Of course not.”

Bronn crumpled up the sandpaper and threw it at him, hitting Jaime right on the face. “Hey! What was that?”

Bronn continued throwing odds and ends from the table on which the chair was perched. Scotch tape. A piece of nail. A pen. A small tablet notebook. Jaime managed to block the notebook, though it hit him hard on the wrist. As he rubbed the purpling spot, he snarled, “Fuck you.”

“Fuck me? Well, you go fuck yourself in the ass again, Jaime. You fucking paused! You’re thinking of drinking again, aren’t you?”

“It’s not something I can just turn off!”

“So that’s your excuse. ‘Oh, I can’t fucking regard no more, so I’ll drink?’” Bronn growled. 

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I always think of it!” Jaime exploded. “I always think maybe just a sip. Maybe if I can just smell it. I’ll always be sick like that and throwing things at me is not fucking helping!”

“What do you want me to do then? Give you a hug? I don’t even hug my dog, Jaime. And that fleaball gets my newspaper, he barks when it rains and makes no complaint when I insist that he still sleep outside. If you’re looking for someone to commiserate and give you a cup of tea, you’ve come to the wrong place. I give the truth, no matter what. If you're gonna drink again, you can't come here anymore. You know this."

“Just as you know I was talking about how difficult it is getting back on my feet.”

“Of course it’s difficult! You were drunk for three years. But Jaime, come on. It’s been seven years. That has to mean something. Seven years you’ve been thinking of still drinking but you haven’t. Now you’re complaining about not being able to draw a bowl of fruit. Seems to me you’re justifying a reason to drink again.” 

Jaime flushed. “No. I wasn’t.”

“You think you weren’t. You probably don’t know yourself but you are.”

“Bronn, I think it. Yes.” Jaime said quietly, almost speaking to himself. “But I don’t do it. I refuse.” 

Bronn looked at him. Jaime stared back.

“I _refuse._ ”

After a quiet passed, Bronn said, “Well, then, just keep saying that whenever you think you’re gonna fail drawing another bowl of fruit. If it kept you from drinking all this time, I don’t see how it won’t keep you from failing.” He shrugged and turned his attention back to the chair. “If you ask me, a bowl of fruit isn’t a stirring subject. Now a woman.” He glanced at Jaime and grinned. “A nude woman. That’s bound to get your creative juices going.” His eyes veered down briefly and Jaime looked at his crotch. “Among other things. You wouldn't want that to fall off from lack of use.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the previous chapters establish the situation of Jaime and Brienne before they meet. That will happen, I promise :-) but I just want to put these in place first. Their wants and needs do not align with each other's but their paths will cross. When that happens, the hope is they get what they've always wanted--for starters. 
> 
> As the writer, I wanted a story where they don't really need each other. That's why Brienne isn't really in dire situation--she has three minimum wage jobs, sure, but she has a place of her own. So far, it's Jaime who's struggling and he's going to have to face certain things about himself first, hopefully before Brienne comes along.
> 
> Bronn doesn't have a surname. I took 'Cooper' from the alias he used in that Dorne episode in S5, where he and Jaime lie to the Dornish guards.


	4. All This Color and No Inclination

Jaime left Bronn’s shop feeling no better. He wasn’t looking for somebody to pat him on the back, or someone to say something nice. A sympathetic ear. That’s all. It was getting old getting bashed on all sides with his former addiction. Tyrion and Margaery thought to make fun of him, good-natured as it was, so he would stop feeling guilty. Bronn had given him the equivalent of getting clubbed in the head. Jaime felt like a helpless seal dragged through the sand and repeatedly hit before succumbing to death.

He checked his phone for a nearby AA, if there was one ongoing right this moment. No names were exchanged but they were his people. They knew how it was to have kicked the habit but still think about it every day. Not every hour—those were for really bad cases, but it was pretty much every day. Far from better.

It was while Jaime was palming his pockets that he realized he’d left it. Along with his wallet. In the middle to the sidewalk, he let out a loud groan, drawing the curiosity of some passersby while everyone else thought to give him a wide berth. He yanked at his hair in frustration, remembering that it was this very emotion that drove him out of his apartment. Yet, he somehow remembered to tuck as small sketchbook under his arm and stuff his shirt pockets with charcoal. Talent he may no longer have but drawing was still a priority, it appeared.

Bronn’s shop was four blocks away but he didn’t want to go back there. He knew his best friend meant well but couldn’t risk a possible repeat of that lecture. Jaime hated being told, despite the benevolent intention behind it. He was a Lannister, fierce and roaring much like the beat of the old family sigil. It was lions who told.

His neighborhood was twelve blocks away. He sighed and lowered his hands, just staring at people milling past him. Because he was in the middle of the sidewalk, he got elbowed or snaps of, “Do you mind?” He ignored them all, just staring at what was happening. The hotdog stand stood side-by-side with a panini one. Two women with mops of gray curls helped each other shuffle down the street while people impatiently went around them. A guy in a t-shirt and shorts, holding a guitar case, was trying to hail a cab.

Jaime put one foot in front of him then the next. Repeat and onward, he thought. As he walked, he took note of random things. The graffiti on a wall between the windows of a coffee shop and a booksore. A group of four teenaged girls walking out of the coffee shop with their lattes. A tourist bus rolled past. A traffic cop was writing tickets for cars that had gone beyond their time for parking.

Concentrating on getting the little things done was helpful to Jaime. It wasn’t that he was slow, but needed time to process things. The need for speed has been one of the factors behind his drinking, the urgency for instant gratification that was best found in a bottle. When he looked up, he realized he had followed people. Across was a park.

He picked up his feet and hurried a little. Jaime had lived in King City his whole life but it never failed to yield surprises for him. Being a Lannister was great but only because of the money.

During the early days of art school, Jaime was often on the defensive. Anyone who thought artists were tortured souls need only to spend an hour with them to know that they were vicious, almost rivaling starved beasts over a precious piece of bone.

Being a Lannister, he grew up in privilege. “Pretty boy, pretty art,” people would scoff about him, many times to his face. What could someone who grew up knowing he would get three meals every day, sleep on thousand-thread count sheets, know of life to be able to paint it? He had no hunger. Had never experienced anything close to urgency or desperation. Getting what he wanted was never a problem. To be an artist was to live with the knowledge that you will never get what you want but you will try, believing that every stroke of the brush will get you there.

Jaime didn’t deny all those charges against him. Yes. He had no idea what it was to be hungry. He had the support of his father, distant though Tywin was. He had no idea how it was to need something with every fiber of his being. If privilege gave him blinders, fine, he told his detractors. But how sure were they that they didn’t have blinders either? They knew only how it was to want. They knew hoping could be futile.

“So what are you going to paint? Grays and blacks in acrylic, storms and desolation? Your sorry lives. You’ll do a live installation of another Saturday night alone and going mad because you can’t get laid.” He had said. “Your shit lives don’t make you better than me.”

His bluntness further narrowed down the list of people who were at least civil to him. Jaime was taught never to care for what others thought but he was determined to be better. And it wasn’t because he would always have a roof over his head, that in his mini-bar were gourmet cheeses and sandwiches. It was because he saw the world a certain way and could render it on canvas. Early on, he knew the kind of style he wanted: contrasts. Thus, he deliberately worked with a heavy hand when using watercolor, and was gentle with acrylic. He practically ground charcoal on the paper. He painted the emerald-tinged Sunset Sea in watercolor, piling on the paint quickly and exercising not a whit gentleness or care. The result was a seemingly placid scenery but the heavy strokes indicated a savagery under the surface. Casterly Rock, looking tall and stately, actually looked like it would crumble at the whisper of the wind upon closer look.

On a whim, he entered the piece in in the annual King City Young Artist Contest _. Casterly Rock_ won the top prize. The art world was a difficult world to hack into but not for Jaime. Lannister was a famous last name in Westeros, and when a photo of his was snapped up and featured in an article in a newspaper, that impenetrable world came calling to him. Museums big and small wanted to hold his first exhibit. People were eager to snap up his pieces.

Jaime famously declined all these and continued working on his next piece. _Casterly Rock_ , while yes, rigorous to render, was still very much alive for him and there were photos. His next subject was strictly from memory. Photographs abound but he wanted to capture her based on his memory. When he finished, he felt proud. Every artist felt that his latest work was his best but this one was different. It felt like something he should do, and had done well.

 _Joanna_ won in the prestigious Westeros National Art Competition, which was held every five years. Jaime took pride in this. Artists had to enter the contest through a pseudonym, although there was paperwork proving which art belonged to the artist. Judged solely on mastery and promise, Jaime had at last proven his talent. More articles about him followed, with one noting that the discovery of Jaime Lannister was imminent. “There is much to say about his family, particularly his father, Tywin Lannister. And many has been said about his young, golden, and exceedingly handsome offspring. Most are not as flattering as the previous sentence. But with Jaime Lannister being the only artist to win two prestigious art contests back-to-back, he has silenced his critics not with a mighty roar but with the stroke of a brush.”

 Tywin, who had grudgingly agreed to pay for his tuition and support him while in school, decided that his son did have some talent and increased his allowance. Jaime moved out of the dorms and used his prize money to buy a small factory converted into a loft. This was where he lived until now.

 _Casterly Rock_ hung in the wall of Tywin’s study. Of course his father didn’t realize the irony. He displayed it to show off to guests and clients, not realizing that Jaime had painted it in a way that conveyed his bitter sentiment towards the place and his family, his father in particular. Joanna hung in his loft. There were generous offers to buy the paintings but Jaime refused them all. He painted them because his heart led them there. They brought him the respect he craved but that was as far as he would capitalize on them. Especially _Joanna._

 Jaime didn’t know any more if he still had the heart to paint. Drawing was even difficult, and it used to be the easiest thing. He could capture landscapes and cityscapes on any flat surface, once. As he sat down on a park bench, staring dully at the afternoon joggers with their earphones, the teen couples kissing or holding hands, the elderly sitting on other park benches and exchanging smiles, he wondered about a life that involved no charcoal, no paint, no canvas. A life where there was no drive to see the world and hope to capture it on a sketch pad. To just live.

Ouch. He rubbed at the tightening on his chest, breathing swiftly and deeply until it went away.

Gods, what a world he was in. Despite the struggle, the guilt, of possibly never forgiving himself, he could still love the vivid greenness of the trees, the rich, dark brown bark. The soft cushion of grass that barefoot kids were running on while their parents looked on from a picnic mat. The guy selling balloons of every color of the rainbow, for Jaime, was holding a palette of delights. He looked up and there was the sky. Clear, soft blue, as if brushed with the lightest stroke. The clouds were so wispy and feathery, as if done by a trembling hand.

And the sun. Warm. A life force.

Jaime lowered his eyes to the scenery before him. There were still the moms, the couples, the children, the guy in the ice truck, the balloon guy, the hotdog guy. The security guard doing its usual rounds. A gardener. He stared at them, the sketchbook still tucked under his arm, the charcoal in his pocket weighing heavily and pressing on his breast.

He was about to give up and continue the way home on foot when something told him to remain still. He sighed and sat back, putting the sketchbook beside him and resting his elbows on the bench. The usual coterie of faces and shapes, colors.

And then. . _.she_ happened.

 _Is that a woman?_ He thought, sitting up and watching a tall, blond figure from across the path. She was taller than everyone else so it was easy to spot her. Her hair was a pale crop of pale waves. Despite being far, he could see she was heavily flushed to her neck. She wore a white t-shirt and faded jeans, sneakers. She held a brown grocery bag that looked heavy but she carried it as if it weighed mere ounces.

There was little grace to her strides. In fact she looked to be stomping on the ground. She hunched a little and he squinted. He had to get close to see that scowl of hers. Distance made her not as attractive as he thought she’d be. But the way she moved. The one, two, three hard pounding of her feet that could crack the pavement if she did it any harder. Her strong arms. Yet, there, the curve of her neck. Long and strangely delicate as a swan’s. _Does she keep her head down because of this?_

Questions upon questions. Jaime needed answers. He stood up, too late realizing that she was already so far away that she had become so small. He grabbed his sketchpad and took a step forward, watching and unable to tear his eyes from her. This woman. The tallest he had ever seen. Strong yet soft. He picked up the pace and started to jog.

Because his world had been narrowed down to this strange woman with possibly the longest legs and biggest feet, he didn’t see that he was right on the path of cyclists. Too late did he hear the warning shout and when he turned around, his eyes widened at the team of eight cyclists coming fast. They barreled through him, a helmet clocking him right on the chin, a handlebar grinding through a rib. A bony knee slammed onto his cock. Jaime groaned and black spilled over the miasma of color around him.

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone!
> 
> Thank you for the comments and leaving kudos. It's taking me a while to update and reply because there's so much going on right now. I'm sorry if it seems I'm ignoring you but really, it's difficult making the time for this. The story's done but I still have to tweak some parts, revise and all. 
> 
> I'm going to post another update tomorrow since it's the weekend and I can breathe. I hope you all have a nice day!   
> ____  
> Regarding Jaime's competitions, it goes something like this. King City Young Artist is every year. Westeros National Art Competition is every five years. Let's say the previous year Jaime won the King City competition. The year following that is the fifth year, hence why there's the Westeros National Art Competition.
> 
> I'm no artist. Just thought to state the obvious.


	5. Thorns and Blushes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if the language up ahead means this can still be Teen and Up. But it is Teen and Up, and the language is more of in the context of teasing and fun. Oh,well. Just see for yourselves. :-)

Brienne unlocked the main door of the apartment building. Balancing the bag of chicken breasts, steaks and a giant pack of cat food against her hip, she pushed it open with one hand, wincing as she had to fit her tall, broad form through the too-narrow door. She was sweating by the time she was free.

280 Rosby Avenue had only six floors, with five units of varying sizes per floor. Brienne lived in a studio, Apartment B, on the top floor.

Everything about the building was small but maybe it was because she was so massive why this seemed to be the case. Brienne hunched her shoulders, ducked her head as she fit herself inside an elevator that was just a little broader than her, and with just enough head room for her to straighten a little.

She held onto the wall as the elevator lurched upwards, clutching the bag to her chest. The loud, grinding noise and squeaks had become familiar, even comforting. But she was still relieved to make it to her floor in one piece, resolving to use the stairs of the fire escape next time.

The hallway was narrow but brightly-lit. 280 Rosby Avenue was a very modest apartment building on the outside but it was maintained very well. A busted lightbulb was replaced in less than an hour. Problems with the heating, the fridge, were examined almost as soon as a phone call was made to the super, a solemn-looking young man named Jon Snow. There were also security cameras in every floor. So even if the apartment looked rundown on the outside and was in the least fashionable part of the city, the rent was still on the high side. Brienne had bought herself a studio—and the name was already close to pushing it. It was more of a closet, sandwiched as it was between two-bedroom units.

She lived between Ellaria Sand, a friendly Dornish Yoga instructor who was infamous for having male and female guests spend the night, and Olenna Tyrell. It was no secret that the old woman was a member of the Tyrells of Highgarden, once among the richest family in Westeros. Their businesses focused primarily on cattle and agriculture in their heyday. Due to mismanagement from sons and daughters as well as a resistance to upgrade and modernize, the businesses failed one by one. Olenna had been very bitter about this at first, blaming her son Mace’s preference for golf rather than management as the cause for their fortunes to drastically dwindle. But she was fond of his daughter, Margaery.

Brienne had met Margaery. She was a pretty brunette who doted on her grandmother but got frustrated too. Though Olenna could still move around, she struggled with standing up and sometimes needed assistance going to the bathroom. Margaery was married to a rich guy, from another old family. There was more than enough money to hire a nurse or a caretaker to assist Olenna but the old woman was as unyielding as welded steel. Margaery visited twice a week, sometimes taking her children with her, twin boys with golden blond hair and her hazel eyes. They were six years old and precocious, which Olenna found exhausting sometimes. On Sundays, Margaery and her family took her out to lunch and spent the rest of the day with her.

Olenna used to be this stern, iron lady when Brienne first moved on. Her eyes were sharp as they regarded Brienne, who was still very emotional after her father’s death and kept to herself. She cried at night. One time, feeling so alone and betrayed, she had sobbed so loudly. Olenna came knocking on her door. Brienne was trying to disguise the fact that she had been crying but her eyes were swollen and she was red all over. Olenna looked ready to berate the young woman for disturbing her sleep when she apologized. As Brienne blew her nose into a tissue, she confessed that she had lost her father only a while ago.

Since then, Olenna would invite her to her apartment. She insisted on serving Brienne tea and cookies. When she found out she played the cello, she asked her to bring it over to hear her play. A friendship formed between them. Brienne regarded her as a grandmother of sorts, although way too blunt sometimes to be considered sweet. Olenna reasoned she was too fucking old to be sweet.

Brienne knocked on Olenna’s door. She squirmed as she felt being looked at through the peephole before it opened, revealing Margaery.

“Brienne.” Margaery smiled at her. “How nice to see you. Have you come for grandmother?”

Before Brienne could answer, Olenna’s voice rang out, “Is that Brienne? Let the child in, Margaery!”

“Um,” Brienne hovered uncertainly. Margaery laughed and grabbed her by the hand. “Come on, Bree. She asks for you.”

She felt ridiculous being dragged easily by somebody who was half her size in every way. Still holding the bag to her chest, Brienne looked around until she saw Olenna sitting on the sofa. On her lap was the temperamental, ginger Persian named Rose.

Olenna’s apartment may be small but the size was no excuse to not showcase what precious antiques and expensive furniture she had left. The sofa was upholstered in faded emerald brocade printed with golden roses. On rosewood tables and shelves were choice antique pieces of the finest crystals and most delicate porcelains. The air was thick with the scent of roses. It used to give Brienne a headache but she had gotten used to it.

“Come here, child,” Olenna ordered. Her hair was silver and cut in a blunt, chin-length bob. Despite the droopy corners of her eyes and the skin around her chin beginning to sag to her neck, she sat straight and alert. Sharp hazel eyes regarded Brienne. “You’re home early.”

Brienne shrugged. “I left.”

“We’re having tea.” Margaery said as she joined her grandmother. “Why don’t you join us?”

“Oh.” Brienne blushed and shook her head. “That’s really nice of you but I actually came here to ask if you have dinner plans, Olenna. The supermarket gave me some chicken and I thought I’d make dinner for us. That’s if you don’t have plans,” she added quickly, addressing Margaery.

“How sweet,” she replied, beaming. “Actually, I’ll be leaving soon.” She sighed. “My husband called just before you arrived, Brienne. Something’s happened to his brother.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious?”

“Oh, dear, with Jaime, it’s always a catastrophe.” Olenna sounded disapproving. “He’s not paying you enough, Margaery. Or Tyrion.”

“Shush. We don’t want Brienne to think we just help people for the money.” Margaery said in a loud stage whisper. She kissed Olenna on the forehead and picked up her purse. “I really must go. And have a little more faith in Jaime, grandmother. He’s really trying. And doing well, for what it’s worth.”

She waved goodbye to Brienne. Olenna, noting that she continued to stand by the door, sighed in exasperation. “Seven Hells, dear child. I didn’t know I’ve hired a sentry to watch me from over there. Come here. And stop hunching. It may be difficult to look up at you but you should be proud of your height.”

Brienne flushed. “Thanks, but I have to go soon. So, would you like chicken for dinner?”

“I like chicken. And I like dinner. I don’t know why you’re cooking for me and not for a young man.”

A laugh issued from Brienne although her pink cheeks reddened. “Right. Because there’s a long line that goes all the way down the street. Really, Olenna.”

“Don’t tear yourself down like that, Brienne. That gives people permission to do the same to you.” Olenna told her. “But it is baffling, really. You’re young. You look strong.” She squinted, looking at Brienne from head to toe then nodded. “Do you know that in the old days, you would be considered prized stock?”

“You mean like a horse?”

Olenna rolled her eyes. “Oh, haha. Your tits may be small but pregnancy can make them bloom to a respectable size that your husband will surely appreciate. And those hips. Wide. Perfect for child-bearing.”

_“Olenna!"_

“All I’m saying, my dear, is you have the goods. You’re just hiding them, for reasons I don’t understand. You’re young and healthy. Why do you dress like someone who’s given up?”

“Alright, you’re talking like this because you’ve had coffee.” Brienne told her, shaking her head in a scolding manner. “So, are we still on for dinner tonight? I was thinking chicken with mushrooms and shallots.”

“Sounds fancy. Also just the kind of meal that would revive your tired husband to fuck you through the night, Brienne.” Olenna laughed at Brienne’s blue eyes turning owlish. “What? I’ve said ‘fuck’ before. Just never to you. But dear, I do appreciate the offer. So while there’s no husband in the picture, then yes, I say yes to a meal of chicken with shallots and mushrooms.”

“Only if you don’t make some stupid crack about my hips and husbands,” Brienne muttered.

Olenna smirked. “We shall see.”

“By the way, I got Rose some cat food.” Brienne said, going to the kitchen and stashing the bag of gourmet cat food under the sink.

“That’s generous of you.” Olenna told her when Brienne returned to the living room. She stroked Rose under the chin. “You should be nicer to Brienne.”

“If you succeed communicating to a cat, Olenna, I think I might allow you to say something about husbands and fucking, after all,” Brienne remarked, grinning. Olenna laughed and Brienne turned to leave. She was still smiling as she entered her closet-sized apartment.

Despite the very limited space, it was cozy and the kind of place to curl up in and spend the weekend reading novels.

Having to sell a lot of the pieces that comprised her childhood in Tarth, Brienne was left with only sentimental essentials. Framed photos of her parents and herself as a child, old albums. She kept the quilt passed down from her great-grandmother and her mother’s lace wedding dress. Her father’s antique, roll-top desk, which would fetch a generous price if sold, was in the corner.

The place was neat, cozy and could be a little more spare so it wouldn’t look smaller than it did but minimalism struck Brienne cold. She could appreciate mostly bare, open spaces but she was comfortable around knick-knacks and the possibility of tripping over a footstool, for example.

Her favorite spot was by the window, where she kept her cello in its stand and her father’s faded and worn green armchair. When she wasn’t sitting on it playing, she would just there, imagining that she was once again a little girl in her father’s arm. It still smelled slightly of mint and the cigars he liked.

Brienne put away the steaks in the fridge while she left the chicken out to thaw. She didn’t put the vegetable in though it would still be a few hours before the cooking started. Having been left off early gave her an extra four hours today.

She changed into a threadbare gray tank top and old, red plaid boxer shorts. She poured herself a glass of water, taking a sip then bringing it towards her practice station. The glass was placed on a small table then she sat down, gazing reverently at the cello before taking it from its stand.

Brienne had been playing since she was seven. She didn’t regard herself as a genius or prodigy but her talent with the instrument was enough to earn her spot in the Stormlands School of the Performing Arts. When she finished high school, she got an invitation to audition at the Marillion.

She sat on the armchair and took the cello. It had been custom-made to accommodate her height, and painted a rich blue, her favorite color. Before beginning to play, she pressed her lips on the fingerboard and held the instrument in her arms, embracing it as if was a human being. The cello was her father’s last gift. It was the most precious and valuable thing she owned.

Then she leaned away, turning the cello on its endpin just because before drawing it between her legs. Her knees cradled the lower bout of the instrument then balanced the upper bout against her chest. Hand gentle on the fingerboard but fingers pressing firmly on it, she drew the bow across the bridge and began to play.

Hours could pass, maybe days and Brienne wouldn’t notice as long as she was playing the cello. Whether the rhythm was fast or slow, the music hinting at darkness or the promise of the spring, hearing its music was always a comfort. It brought memories as a child tuning in to the classical instrumentals radio station and her ears perking up at hearing the instrument play for the first time. The cello was wood, non-living but Brienne had always loved it more than any of her stuffed animals. It was always secure and steady, and when she played it was the guarantee of blissful hours of just music. The cello was quick to transport her from the noise and chaos of the city to a world only of its music, its body getting warm from being pressed to her body.

Auditions for a coveted spot at the Marillion was a rigorous process. There were those who were invited and those who initiated going to one. There were no distinctions, and the list could be endless. Brienne had to wait until close to midnight before she was called. It was a month before she got the heavy envelope in the mail stamped with the curly-cued M symbol of the school on the seal.

For her new audition piece, Brienne had picked her favorite, The Two Swords Concerto. Years ago this was the piece she wanted to perform but her father suggested that admissions wanted something more classical. Two Swords was more of a modern classic.  The story about two swords being reforged from a great legendary sword whose name was lost to legend, then sent on different journeys for honor, duty and love was her favorite, even as a child.

It was a difficult, dramatic piece, to say the least. Intense from the first note, performing it was mentally, emotionally and physically exhausting. Cellists didn’t like it because it meant broken strings and bleeding fingers, but also knew that to be able to play Two Swords made you stand out from the rest. So many have tried, and just as many, or more, have failed. The composition also left the listener wrung out.

Brienne always had to take a breather after the first round, have a sip of water, wipe the sweat from her forehead and neck before taking the cello again. Two Swords was not a piece to be played lightly. Few would dare choose this as an audition piece because of the high probability of the instrument and the player breaking, literally. She chose Two Swords because this was what she had always wanted to perform and had been practicing for years. Perhaps she sounded better. Maybe her technique refined. She wouldn’t know until after the audition.

She practiced for three hours. Exhausted, her forehead rested on at the back of the fingerboard, her arms holding the upper bout loosely but still securely. Her legs splayed in front of her, the position a welcome stretch from the position they have been locked in. When the hard, rapid stomps of her heartbeat eased, she sat up and collapsed against the armchair, still cradling the cello to her body.

Her legs shook as she staggered to the fridge for a can of soda. Brienne wined as she glugged the sugar drink. Hand on her heart, she disposed of the can and started on dinner.

The chicken recipe she was making was actually a favorite dish of her father’s, and she supposed, hers too. This was the dish waiting for her after flying back home to Tarth after the audition, and it was also made during her birthday and the Feast of the Seven. Brienne made it for the first time for herself last year, when she felt like eating again after the haze of mourning had eased. Since then, she made it regularly, and always had chicken stock and white wine, two staples for the dish.

Out of consideration for Olenna, Brienne put a sweater over her tank top and old track pants over the shorts. Pyrex dish in hand, she went to Olenna’s apartment.

Olenna had the kind of china that shouldn’t be used for eating, and looked more appropriate in a glass cabinet forever untouched. Brienne once asked if she had simpler plates or she could brings hers over. Olenna gave her a steely look and declared, “In my apartment, we use my pretty plates and only my pretty plates.”

The TV was on when Brienne let herself in. Olenna, sitting at the dining table, waved her to come over. “My apologies, Brienne, but apparently, Jaime Lannister is in the news.”

Brienne raised an eyebrow as she placed the dish in the middle of the table. “Is he an actor or something?”

Olenna chuckled. “Well, he’s certainly too handsome to merely dabble in paint. No, Marge is married to his brother.”

“Oh.” Remembering, Brienne asked, “he the reason she had to leave suddenly?”

“As always.” Olenna cast the TV a withering look, but the corners of her lips were tilting upwards in suggestion of a smile. “Silly boy. Such a silly, silly boy.”

Brienne sat down and stared at the TV screen. She recognized Falcon Park. “I was there earlier. I took a shortcut because the groceries were so heavy. What happened?”

“Ran over by cyclists or something,” Olenna said with a shrug. “Thank the gods he’s got good looks else he’s just a stupid oaf. The ex-alcoholic tag gives him a sexier edge, I admit.”

The screen suddenly flashed with a photo. Brienne caught her breath.

When Olenna described him as handsome, she pegged him for just another good-looking guy. Somebody who stood out, who had more flash than others. Never, never in her wildest dreams did she imagine he could be this handsome.

“Is that. . .” she swallowed. “Is that him?”

“Yes.”

People often whined about the gods being stingy despite offerings. Well, Jaime Lannister was proof that they could be generous. Very, very generous. The blond hair was a rich shade of gold and disheveled professionally. Bright eyes the exact color of emeralds looked right through her. His nose was slim and elegant, and those cheekbones could cut glass. The jawline was sculpted with the most expert hands.

He was smirking, one corner of his lips quirked, framed by deep dimples. Seven Hells, if he was this good-looking from a photograph, on TV, he must be god-like in the flesh. Or half a god. Feeling herself blush, Brienne reached for Olenna’s plate and started putting food there. Olenna huffed and turned off the TV.

“I used to think Margaery wasted herself on Tyrion. That’s his brother. He’s a dwarf,” she remarked, watching her scoop food onto the plate. “Turns out he’s the decent, stable one. Jaime’s found too much joy in the bottle and that sister of theirs.” She shuddered.

Brienne put the plate in front of Olenna and looked up. “A sister?”

“Cersei. Married to the brother of Marge’s ex. She was the subject of several blind items some years  back. It was never confirmed and the details escape me now. But it had something to do with Jaime and it’s widely believed it caused him to drink. Tyrells are paupers now but we still hear things about members of our former circle.” Olenna’s tone was mocking. “At least, some information reaches us.”

“It must be terrible for a family member to cause you to drink.” Brienne grew up with only her father. It was an isolated childhood but a happy one. His death brought her straight to Seven Hells but she stubbornly clung to the memory of those happy years. The only happy years of her life, even when they unraveled after his death.

“Jaime isn’t a bad seed. He’s a good kid. Arrogant and sarcastic, too blunt for his own good but he has the name and talent to back them up. And good looks.” Olenna watched her closely helping herself to the food. “Wouldn’t you say he’s good-looking, Brienne?”

“I haven’t gone on a date for years. Of course I find him good-looking.”

“I think even somebody blind would call him good-looking.”

She laughed. “Maybe.”

Olenna poured wine into their goblets and raised her glass. “Worth toasting to, child. Raise your glass, come on. A woman who’s on the fence with Jaime’s good looks. The world may be coming to an end. Or a beginning.”

Brienne clinked her glass. “Cheers.”

“You have to admit, if that’s the kind of husband you have, I don’t think you’ll be out of bed long enough to make him dinner. Lions have a very high stamina, you know.” Olenna winked at Brienne, grinning when she blushed.

But she was unperturbed. Pretending to groan, Brienne said, “I did say you could joke about husbands and fucking if you succeeded with Rose. Has that useless fluff made herself scarce?”

Olenna shrugged coyly. “Maybe.” Then, her eyes twinkling, she said, gently, "Brienne, it was husbands and hips. Not fucking." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but Jaime and Brienne don't meet yet. I wanted to establish first that there are people who may connect them to each other, that's why we have Margaery and Olenna here. I also thought to show that Brienne has a mother/grandmother figure in the Queen of Thorns.
> 
> Do you think my characterization of Olenna is okay? Please comment! I've only read ASOIAF recently then there's the show. I ask because she'll be in the other installments. Thanks for making it to the end. Part Two will be up in a few hours. 
> 
> Have a great weekend!


End file.
